


mockingbird

by zombiejosette



Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 21:02:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6873151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombiejosette/pseuds/zombiejosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>he's not even seven when he tries to burn a cricket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mockingbird

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on tumblr (@slutshaminghamilton) 4/21/2013.

He’s not even seven when he tries to burn a cricket.

When they ask him later (the children in the neighborhood; he talks about magnifying glasses being more complicated than they look and they’re young and they ask how), he’ll just shrug and answer honestly because he doesn’t know why. There’s no method there, no great answers that are in need of finding. But the cricket’s there and the glass is there and the sun is there, high and bright and hot in the sky, and all Dale wants to see is that bright vivid flame, to hear a high whistle if he listens closely to the insect burn.

The whim’s just there one day. An idea, one whispered, soft and red; a spark. It catches as easily as dry wood and the itch isn’t satisfied until he’s holding the magnifying glass, weight heavy in his small hand.

But the cricket’s faster and hops high and the sun isn’t at the right angle and he’s only six but he anticipated this. He doesn’t anticipate the matches falling from their box, rolling into the dirt and the grass. He crushes two under his knees on the concrete as he wrestles the bug into submission. He closes his fist too tightly around it.

“For an experiment,” he offers all too willingly, a few minutes later. His mother has a damp rag and scrubs at the palm of his hand. The cricket’s body sits in the trash can; the stain of its blood, however, seems to be giving her trouble.

“Is that what the magnifying glass is for?” she asks. She lifts the rag from his hand to inspect it for a moment, tries not to let him see her grimace. He tries not to recoil.

“It was -”

“And the matches?”

“My experiment.”

There’s a hard scrub into his hand and the only red left is his skin. Dale shoves his hands into his pockets and avoids his mother’s face and he tries to bite his tongue, tries not to think of the dreams or the voices or fires but, “Someone told me to burn it.”

She tries not to let him see her face, the fear in her eyes, but he’s blind to it anyway as he focuses his attention on his dirty shoes and the floor. He suspects nothing until she gathers him in her arms.


End file.
